Help Me
by night.nerd
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has survived the Fall, due to the help of his pathologist Molly, who has also agreed to let him stay at her new place for a while, and a particular drug. However, Molly quickly realizes a drugged Sherlock is really no different from a normal one, that is, if Sherlock is ever normal.
1. The First Night

"Molly?" Sherlock was sprawled in the back of my car, his eyes slightly unfocused as he attempted to observe his surroundings.

"Yes?" I asked, my own gaze remaining on the road. I was still trying to memorize how to get to my new flat, and I was constantly looking at the directions taped to the steering wheel in front of me.

"Where… where are we going?" His words were slightly slurred, a side effect from the drug he had administered to himself. His eyes seemed to still have the same restless quality about them, but they seemed slower than usual.

"We are going to my flat, remember? You are going to hide there for a little while."

"Hide from what?" His lack of memory had begun to scare me, but I figured his brilliant mind was just foggy and he was having problems forming comprehendible thoughts. Hopefully he would be back to normal in the morning once the drug had worn off.

I finally pulled into my parking spot outside of my new flat, glad that I had located it without too much difficulty. I quickly got out of my seat and then opened Sherlock's door for him. He stumbled as he stepped out; his weight too much for his weakened legs. As he put one of his arms around my shoulders, leaning on me for support, I felt heat rise up to my cheeks. Sherlock and I eventually made it to the door, but he was in no state to be on his own.

We walked into the kitchen and he instantly took a seat at the counter overlooking the rest of the kitchen. "Sherlock, I think you need to eat," I told him, recalling the fact that he doesn't eat when he is on a case and that he had recently been on several cases consecutively. "When is the last time you ate anyways?"

"Eating?" Sherlock muttered. "Food… it was four days ago. However, food is necessary right now. I need to rest so I can return to normal."

I laughed at the irony of the statement. "When are you ever normal?" I muttered.

"Heard that," Sherlock informed me.

A small smile spread across my face and I searched the cabinets for food that would make a decent meal. I finally located a box of pasta and a small amount of sauce, both which I had started heating up over the stove. "No, no, you are doing it wrong."

"There is no specific way to cook pasta Sherlock. That's the beauty of it." I poured half the box of noodles into the boiling water as I allowed the sauce to simmer.

He nodded halfheartedly, his strength and consciousness quickly fading away from him. "You have to cook at half of the heat you cooking the pasta at now for twice as long; otherwise it won't be fully cooked. The sauce must be near the boiling point to have the right consistency for tomato sauce over pasta." I was amazed that Sherlock could was still able to criticize my cooking skills in his current state.

"Just shut up Sherlock. You probably won't remember this in the morning anyways." I turned up the heat for the sauce and began to stir it with a wooden spoon.

"You are stirring too slowly, and I will remember this, just to prove you wrong. Maybe if I get bored one day I'll teach you how to cook pasta the correct way." He was slowly slumping to the countertop, trying to stay awake.

"The great Sherlock Holmes? Cooking? What did that drug do to you?" I continue to stir, but I slowed my pace down so Sherlock would stop insulting my lacking cooking skills.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, partially obscured by his drooping eyelids. "I prefer chemistry to cooking, but if I am going to live with you for a couple of months, you are going to need to learn how to cook the correct way, along with a variety of many other things."

"Funny, I never thought you would care about cooking food, of all things." I considered listening to his instructions on how to cook pasta, but then I realized he would probably be fast asleep before I was able to finish. The sauce was almost boiling and the timer went off, signaling the pasta was done cooking. I turned off the stove and begin to put some noodles and sauce in a bowl for Sherlock, who eyed it wearily.

"Sometimes cooking shows are the most logical programs on the telly," he said nonchalantly. His eyes surveyed the flat, noting the blank countertops and the empty cabinets. After Sherlock came to me, asking for my help and telling me he would need to stay with me for a while, I told my two flatmates at the time that I needed a new place closer to my job. I didn't have any time at all to move in before Sherlock required my assistance.

I looked at his bowl of spaghetti, still untouched. "Sherlock, you need to eat."

"No," he insisted, but he closed his eyes wearily.

"Either you eat that pasta, or I'll-" I began before Sherlock interrupted me.

"Or what? You aren't exactly the most menacing person Molly." Even in his tired, drugged state Sherlock was still capable of insulting me.

"I care about you, okay Sherlock? I just want you to eat so you won't starve to death." I blushed, realizing what I had said.

"I still have at least twenty-five days before I starve to death and five days before my body will begin to feel real signs of hunger. Leave me alone Molly. I don't need your help." His tone was hostile and the full effect of his words stabbed me like razorblades. I raced out of the kitchen, leaving Sherlock alone. The bedroom was quite small, with only a queen sized bed and a bedside table left by the last people who had rented the flat. I collapsed on the bed, realizing I was exhausted from aiding Sherlock with faking his death.

A couple minutes later, I heard a slight creak as the door opened slowly. "You needed my help earlier today," I told Sherlock as he stood in the doorway with his bowl of pasta.

He nodded, his movements robotic from sleep deprivation and the aftereffects of the drug. "I ate some of the pasta."

"Just go to sleep Sherlock." I felt defeated. Even after helping him fall off of a six-story building, Sherlock still insulted me. He didn't appreciate me or anything I did for him, which was a lot. I retrieved and delivered the drug that reduced the stress of the impact on his body after landing in the truck that quickly drove away after he landed.

"There is only one bed, and you seem to have collapsed in it."

"You can sleep on the couch then," I muttered, quickly falling asleep.

"There is no couch either. Molly, this is a new flat and you didn't even have the capability to discover that there is no second bed or a couch." I opened my eyes slightly, enough to see Sherlock standing over me, analyzing me and my decisions.

"Just sleep on the floor."

Sherlock rolled his eyes before stating, "I will not sleep on the floor." He placed the bowl on the bedside table and approached the bed. "Scoot over Molly."

I sat up, looking him straight in the eye. "No. You deserve to sleep on the floor. After all I did for you today, or any day for that matter, you don't appreciate me. You have never even said thank you. On top of all that, you insult me, with total disregard for my feelings. You can sleep on the floor."

Sherlock leaned down and tucked a loose strand of chestnut hair from behind my ear, and I felt a blaze of color in my cheeks. "Thank you."

"Still sleeping on the floor," I told him with difficulty as his eyes met mine.

"No I'm not. I'm sleeping right here, next to you." He yawned, a very odd sight. I decided that I could either let Sherlock share the bed with me or he would pass out onto the floor in a short amount of time. I sighed, hating that I was giving in to him, and then I rolled over onto one side of the bed, making room for Sherlock. He kicked off his shoes before laying down next to me.

"I meant it Molly. Thank you for everything."

"You're welcome," I told him, though the hurt I was still feeling was still conveyed through my words. He never apologized for insulting me or for never considering my feelings. Sherlock must have figured that out because he hesitantly reached for my hand, entwining his fingers with my own.

"You are truly amazing for being able to pull that off."

"Stop being insincere and just go to sleep," I told him, but my cheeks were still flaming.

"I'm being genuine. Thank you Molly." I listened as his breathing evened out, signaling that he was asleep.

I whispered, "You're welcome," before embracing sleep for myself, still holding hands with Sherlock. Maybe living with him for a couple of months wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"Goodnight Molly Hooper."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Unfortunately, I do not own BBC Sherlock, otherwise you guys would be seeing a lot more Sherlolly/Mollylock fluff (which one is it anyways?). Anyways, if you liked it, please let me know! I'm considering writing more chapters in this situation, though oneshots are more my thing. By the way, this is not my theory about how Sherlock survived the Reichenbach Fall. If you are interested in hearing my theory, feel free to PM me! Also, if you have any theories, I would be glad if you messaged them to me. I love to talk Reichenbach! Anyways, thanks for reading!

Remember, what takes me over an hour to write only takes you only a couple seconds to review. Please review! :)

Until next time,  
~NN


	2. The Second Night

**Author's Note:** You guys asked for another chapter, so here it is! Well, first of all, I would like to thank Franki09 for being a fantastic Betareader. She definitely polished it up and fixed all my mistakes. Another thing, all of this belongs to BBC Sherlock. Enjoy! ~NN

* * *

"Molly, please get off."

"Hm?" I opened my eyes slowly, blinking at the bright light that was streaming in through the window. The unfamiliar surroundings slowly formed actual shapes and I remembered that I was in a new apartment, which I would be sharing with Sherlock.

"I said get off." Groggily, I glanced down, realizing my head was resting on Sherlock's chest. His arm closest to me was wrapped around my waist, but he quickly withdrew it.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, sitting upright. I could feel my cheeks flaming with colour, especially when I began remembering what had happened the previous night.

"We need to get another bed. This one is a little small," Sherlock noted, straightening his crinkled dress shirt that he had slept in. I blushed even more when I realized he had said that we needed to get another bed, possibly implying getting a larger bed and getting rid of the small one. I shook my head slightly, knowing he couldn't have meant that. He's Sherlock. "Where is my coat?"

"It might be in the kitchen."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Why would my coat be in the kitchen?" Sherlock paused for a second, clearly thinking about something, before continuing, "Molly, what exactly happened last night?"

"You mean you don't remember?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, annoyed. "What happened last night?"

"You don't remember anything at all?"

"No. Tell me Molly!" He paused, frustrated, then added as an afterthought, "Please." I could tell this was a very odd sensation for Sherlock Holmes- not being able to remember something.

"Well, you sort of criticized me several times, especially when I was making you pasta."

"Pasta? Why would you make me pasta?" He wrinkled his nose in disgust. I always knew he had hated eating, but I didn't know it seemed that revolting to him.

I sighed, anticipating a repeat of the argument from the day before. "I didn't want you to starve."

"Why? Then I would no longer be bothering you."

"You said something like that last night too. Because of your reaction yesterday, I don't really feel like telling you why." I looked down and started tracing swirls in the sheets with my finger. The unpleasant scene replayed in my head.

* * *

"Sherlock, you need to eat," I had told him, noticing his pasta was still untouched.

"No," he insisted. A drugged Sherlock was not very strong, so I found him a lot less intimidating than usual.

"Either you eat that pasta, or I'll-" I began before Sherlock rudely interrupted me.

"Or what? You aren't exactly the most menacing person Molly." He had glared at me while saying the words, and suddenly I had realized that Sherlock didn't act any different when he was drugged, even though he may look different.

"I care about you, okay Sherlock? I just want you to eat so you won't starve to death." I still could not believe I actually said that.

"I still have at least twenty-five days before I starve to death and five days before my body will begin to feel real signs of hunger. Leave me alone Molly. I don't need your help." He was so hostile and cruel to me, so I left the room. However, he had followed me, and even apologized. Maybe Sherlock did act slightly different when drugged.

* * *

He was running the possibilities of all the things that he could have said before he softly spoke. "What did I say Molly?"

"It doesn't matter. Anyways, you apologized shortly after, so it was alright." I shrugged nonchalantly, trying to convince Sherlock that his insults didn't hurt me.

"Molly, the way you are sitting with your back slightly hunched and… wait, I apologized?" His tone was not only surprised, but also slightly repulsed. "I don't usually apologize, and when I do, it's usually because it is absolutely necessary," he muttered to himself before continuing. "Well, if I apologized, I at least should know what I was apologizing for. Tell me." He sounded commanding and I involuntarily flinched, bad memories from my past rushing back to me.

"You told me to leave you alone, then you said you didn't need my help," I told Sherlock quietly, my eyes downcast.

He took a deep breath before speaking. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking and-" Sherlock began, but I interrupted him.

"You just said you don't apologize," I mused aloud, trying to make sense of his apology.

"Well, you're slumped body posture and your slight frown told me that you were in fact not alright and the source of that was most likely the insult from yesterday, meaning you either did not find my apology sincere enough or it wasn't a good enough apology. Am I correct?"

I looked up to meet his eyes, focused on his deductions about me. "Yes," I admitted, perplexed. "You are right, as usual." I glanced at the time, surprised to find it was early afternoon. "Sherlock, I have to get ready for work. It starts in a little less than an hour."

Sherlock nodded, and I began to stand up. "Molly, how exactly did we end up sleeping in the same bed?" A familiar warm, tingling feeling filled my brightly coloured cheeks as I sat back down. If I didn't know better, I might have thought Sherlock was a bit red also. He was still sitting with his back against the bedframe, no emotion showing through his angular features.

"Well, I was already in the bed, half asleep, when the drugged version of you stumbled in. After that, you refused to sleep on the floor even though I asked you to, and since there is no sofa, you just sort of slept here." More warmth flooded my cheeks when I remembered Sherlock holding my hand and his eyes quickly glanced at my cheeks. I hoped he hadn't noticed, but he's Sherlock. When doesn't he notice?

"What else?"

"What?" I looked at the clock nervously, the minutes quickly slipping by. I didn't want to be late for work, but I didn't quite want to let this conversation go either.

"The colour in your cheeks increased after you were speaking, suggesting that something happened afterwards." He said it so bluntly, like he didn't care what happened but couldn't stand not knowing what it was.

"Oh. We sort of, you know, held hands." I couldn't believe it was possible to blush even more.

"Is that all? Or did we do anything worse?" Disappointment quickly engulfed me. Worse? Does that mean Sherlock was implying that holding hands with me was bad?

"That's it." I stood up fully and strode out of the room to trunk of my car, which held the boxes containing my clean clothes, no longer wanting to discuss the previous night with Sherlock. I should have known that nothing that perfect could stay that perfect. I hated how I let Sherlock walk all over me, as if he controlled me. My attraction to him definitely didn't help in situations where he was trying to manipulate me, or in any situation at all actually. I longed to give him whatever he wanted in a futile attempt to get him to like me as, well, more than a friend. Sherlock was just so unlike any other man of the planet, not to mention he was also fairly attractive. I always had to resist the urge to run my fingers though his black curls and get lost in his eyes, which could never seem to stay a constant colour. They were restless, just like him.

It was at that point I realized that while my mind had been daydreaming, my arms had somehow picked up a box of clothing and my untrustworthy legs had led me back into the bedroom where Sherlock was watching me curiously with the eyes I had just been fantasizing about.

"You looked as if you were in a trance," Sherlock stated.

Hoping his deduction skills were still slightly slower than usual because of the after-effects of the drug, I responded, "I was just deep in thought."

"You seem flustered."

"I'm fine," I said unconvincingly before continuing past him towards the only bathroom in the one bedroom, one bathroom flat. Honestly, I was not able to afford a larger flat and Sherlock as unable to help support me financially because of his "death". Though the small flat could often be a detriment, it could also be a good thing, or so I learned last night.

"I never said you weren't fine. I simply stated you were flustered."

The bathroom door was ajar and I slipped in, ignoring Sherlock's statement. I took off my clothing from yesterday, noticing for the first time that I never changed into my pyjamas. The cherry cardigan, beige slacks, and white button-up top were all slightly wrinkled from the long duration of being worn, and I put on the first clothing I found in the box- jeans and a blue shirt that tied in the back. My hands were unable to reach behind my back and tie the two strings together, and, groaning internally at the inevitable, I reluctantly walked into the bedroom.

"Um, Sherlock?" He glanced over at me, signalling I had his attention from the same position he had been sitting in since he woke up with his back still resting against the metal bedframe. "Could you help me please?" I turned around, revealing the two strings in the back that I was unable to reach.

The bed made a small noise as Sherlock got off, standing on his feet for the first time since the previous night. Unsteadily, he walked towards me and I noticed the effects of the drug may not have worn off completely. He fumbled slightly with the strings before he was able to tie them, his nimble hands gently brushing against the small of my back. "Thanks," I told him, slightly breathless and dizzy from his intoxicating touch.

"Molly, it would take you at least eighteen minutes to reach the morgue from here, even in the best of traffic. You have only fifteen minutes before you are considered late. I suggest you leave now."

I gaped at him, completely bewildered. "How did you figure out where we are?"

He gestured to the open window. "Simple. Now you better be leaving."

"Right!" I exclaimed before heading towards the door. "Goodbye Sherlock!" I called behind me as I shut the door to our new flat.

I slammed the door, still rather upset about being less than ten minutes late and having to explain why I was tardy to my boss. My boss then proceeded to tell me that he was going to deduct some money from my weekly pay-check because I was late. Not to mention later somebody was snickering about the suicide of the apparently fake detective Sherlock Holmes in the cafeteria, which frustrated me even more. By the time I arrived at the flat, I was in a bad mood with a short temper.

Still not hungry after the late lunch I had at work, I headed straight to the bedroom. The only light source was the moon, which provided very little light. "You didn't pick up another mattress," Sherlock muttered, lying sprawled across the bed. "Why not?"

I ignored his question, heading straight towards the bed without turning on the light. "I'm tired Sherlock and I had a bad day. I'm going to sleep." After glancing down at the bed, Sherlock realized that I actually needed some space to sleep and rolled over on his side, creating some room for me. I lay down on my back next to him, my hands resting on my stomach.

Right before I fall asleep, I always let my mind wander; otherwise I have horrible nightmares or oddly bizarre dreams. Of course my mind began to think about the night before, when Sherlock held my hand. Immediately a wave of sadness washed through me. I was physically so close to Sherlock, sharing the same bed with him, but he was emotionally so far away. It was nonsense to think that anything could happen between us, but I couldn't help but hope.

"You look sad." Sherlock repeated the words I had said to him before his 'death', his eyes locked on mine.

I glanced at his face, illuminated in the soft moonlight. "So do you."

"It's John," he admitted after a long pause. "His voice has been swimming through my consciousness all day while you were gone, mourning and begging me to come back." I was shocked that Sherlock was being so open with me, even emotional. It was so unlike him. "I feel guilt Molly. I feel guilty about what I have done."

The silence lasts for a few more minutes before I blurt out, "I'm just thinking about last night." A few seconds passed before I realized what I said. It was mortifying.

"I'm not surprised. Which aspect of it?" Sherlock asked, smirking.

I hesitated before responding. "When we held hands." The oncoming blush was becoming much too familiar.

"Why?" Sherlock, the world's most brilliant consulting detective, was a genius, no doubt about it, but sometimes he could be extremely dense.

My eyelids kept getting heavier, and I knew I would be asleep within a couple of minutes, whether I wanted to be or not. "Use your deduction skills."

Sherlock was quiet for a little while, and I could practically hear the thoughts whirring through his head at a superhuman speed. When I finally closed my eyelids, ready to embrace sleep, I felt his fingers interlock with my own. "Thank you," I mumbled, a smile forming on my face.

"Goodnight Molly Hooper."

I think it was a miracle I ever fell asleep after that.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked it! I am planning on writing five more chapters after this, but updates might be a little slower because I have to go back to school soon.

Please leave a review! Remember, what takes me hours to write only takes you a few seconds to review!

~NN


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